So Do I
by AccioKaruna
Summary: Oneshot. Hints at slash.  My first bad post-Reichenbach fic. Read if you like but keep in mind it was written at 2 AM. Don't ask me what compelled me to write this, because I have no clue. Rated T for language, a drug ref, and because it's a terrible fic.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters. At all.**

**Also, I'm going to say now that this fic shows my mosty unedited thoughts at 2 am. It's not very good. Keep that in mind if you still want to read.**

It's been three months since Sherlock jumped from the roof of St. Bart's.

John visits his grave regularly. Every Sunday, without fail, he comes limping down the path and just stands in front of the grave. Occasionally, he brings Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock never misses it. He finds a sort of comfort in watching his friend, his only real friend, standing by his grave. And for the minutes when he's watching John, he feels a little less hollow, a little less lonely…

And every time John leaves, he can feel a tightening in his chest. He doesn't really understand it, so he brushes it aside and heads back to Molly's to continue his mostly pointless existence.

* * *

><p>Ever since his faux death, Sherlock finds his mind constantly idle. He takes his seven percent solution regularly, simply because there's nothing else to <em>do<em>. He's studied every room of Molly's house, figured out everything there is to learn about it, and he finds himself desperately craving more cases. Which, of course, is ridiculous, since he's supposed to be dead, and no one's going to give a case to a dead man.

One Sunday, while John's visiting Sherlock's grave, John speaks. The only other time he'd said anything had been right after. Sherlock inches as close as he can, trying to hear every word clearly.

"Er… I don't really know why I'm talking to you. I mean, you're dead, so it's not like you can hear me. It's just easier, I guess. Talking to you… But anyways, I've — er — I've started seeing someone." John takes a breath. "And she's lovely, she really is. My therapist says it means I'm starting to recover… Well, you know what I think?" says John, before giving a hollow laugh and replying with, "Bullshit." Sherlock can see the tears barely glistening in his eyes. "Anyways… Mary may be wonderful, but she's… not you." John takes another breath and Sherlock can see him try to compose himself again. "Well, I'd — er — best be off, then… Right. Why am I doing this? There's no one actually here. Right, well…" He clears his throat and hobbles off along the path he came on originally.

Sherlock has no clue how to react. All the emotions he's ever felt come flooding back to him, but he pushes them away like usual. After all, emotions do nothing but get in the way of what he needs to do.

Now, after hearing John's voice properly for the first time in nearly a year, he finally feels the motivation to go after the assassins that Moriarty had set after John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade. Sherlock immediately starts coming up with plans to go after the men as he makes his way back to Molly's, and he already feels alive again.

* * *

><p>John stops visiting his grave regularly after nearly two years, around the time Sherlock kills the last of the assassins. It isn't unexpected, but Sherlock still misses the regular visits. John gets engaged to Mary after six months, and when they get married, John visits Sherlock's grave to tell him. Upon hearing this news, Sherlock feels a slight emotion. Is it jealousy? Hurt? Whatever it is, it confuses him. Feelings don't make proper sense to Sherlock, particularly the ones he has concerning John.<p>

As time passes by, John seems to have recovered. He's cheerful again, smiling a lot, and going about his life as usual. His limp is getting worse. Sherlock knows his friend is still suffering, but he can't bring himself to tell John he's alive. He's… nervous. And uncertain of what'll happen if he does.

* * *

><p>About three months after John gets married, he visits Sherlock's grave again.<p>

"When you first died," he says, "my therapist asked me if there were things that I — that I wanted to tell you, but never got to. And I said yes — but I couldn't say them then. But now," he says, "well — here goes. I — love you. I bloody love you, Sherlock. It's been three fucking years, and I still love you. And… I miss you so much. Every single day." He closes his eyes and swallows. "It's been a little easier, now that I have Mary, but she doesn't really know. I mean, what woman wants to find out her husband is in love with a man who died three years back?" He laughs a dry, hollow laugh. "God… It's been three years to the day, and I'm still not over it."

_Love._ The word keeps floating around in Sherlock's mind. John Watson loves him. And despite the fact that he's constantly reminded himself that caring is not an advantage, that it only gets in the way, Sherlock knows he loves John. It no longer matters that this sort of attachment has been something he's avoided for years, because for the first time, everything makes proper sense. He loves John. He can feel a warmth spreading throughout his body as this realization takes place. He continues to watch his friend, his own mind not feeling as clear as usual but his heart feeling much lighter.

Eventually, John leaves again, and Sherlock is alone once more. But this time, something compels him to get up, to go after John as he limps down the path.

"John," he cries. "John! JOHN!"

A look of shock appears on John's face as he sees a man who was supposed to be dead come running after him and calling his name. He stops where he's at and mouths "Sherlock," seeming unsure whether to believe his friend was actually there.

"John," says Sherlock again as he reaches him. "John, I —"

John cuts him off with a fist to his face. "You bastard," he says, then pulls Sherlock into a tight hug.

Sherlock is taken aback at first by the sudden physical contact, but he eases into it and holds John as tightly as he can. He gives himself over to the feeling of just being there with him, feeling truly content.

After a little while, John speaks. "So — you were hiding somewhere, watching me the whole time," he says tentatively. "Did you — er — hear everything I said?"

"Yeah, I did."

"And…?"

"So do I, John," Sherlock replies. "So do I."

**Well, there it is. My first shitty post-Reichenbach fic. Look, I needed to deal with my feels in some way…**

**I know it's really bad, but in my defense, writing Sherlock is rather difficult. And most of this was also written in the wee hours of the morning, so I obviously wasn't at my most brilliant. I really hope this doesn't deter you from reading my other, slightly higher-quality fics.**

**I was gonna try to make them kiss at the end, but it never really worked out, so I abandoned it.**

**Also, if you can spot any errors, please point them out. I love reviews. Like, I love reviews like John loves Sherlock and Lily Evans loves Harry Potter (and Ron Weasley loves food). So yeah, if you're reading this, I'd totally appreciate if you took a couple of seconds to review. But if you don't, it's cool too.**

**Don't forget to be awesome!**

**-Karuna**


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